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User blog:ScottyBlue/Tales from Bowlaynee Castle
Disclaimer Hello Everyone! I decided it was high time I wrote a story about my main Avatar, Scotty. This is one of the tales from her mult-volume journal, where she writes books and stories. Please comment, and tell me how you like it so far! The accent with which Hook and Scotty both speak is supposed to be closer to Northern British than Scotch Brogue. '--Scotty Bluefleck O Sword of Truth! Fly swift and sure, that Evil die and Good endure!' 19:11, April 15, 2012 (UTC) First Page of Scotty's Journal The following consists of accounts written by a resident of Bowlaynee Castle, chronicling some of the more interesting events that have occured there during her lifetime. Some are lighthearted, and some are serious; some are long, and some are short; however, all are written in the third person, for ease of reading. The author sincerely hopes you enjoy these humble scribbles of a simple young haremaid, who has recently felt lead to become a Teller of Tales for future generations. ''Yours Truly, ''A. Bluefleck: Minstrel, Gardener, and Chronicler The Phantoms 'THE STORY OF THE ONLY WAR I TOOK PART IN, ALBEIT A SHORT ONE' --''by A.B. The northernmost reaches of the Highlands were considered by most visitors to be inhospitable country; bitterly cold, stark and wild, filled with innumerable dangers. Beasts standing at a distance and about to plunge into the area often quailed at their first sight of the North. Black, jagged mountains reared their perpetually snow-capped heads from amidst countless smaller, conifer-dotted hillsides; steep, darkened gorges scored the flatter ground between, as if put there by the claws of some malevolent leviathan. Feirce-looking birds of prey soared about, sometimes giving voice to shrill, unearthly cries as they bade each other "Good Day". Occasionally, chilling winds would blow through the mountains, moaning like the spirits of beasts long gone as they threaded their way through the maze of earth and stone, and bringing a frigid blast of the arctic with them from passing over the snowier areas. This last issue was usually the final straw which caused the less adventurous beasts to turn back; many later would tell their kin to "Stay away from the Highlands; t'is a horrible, bleak place indeed!" However, those beasts who bravely continued into the heart of the Highlands were usually pleasantly suprised at what they found therein. Admittedly, the highest altitudes were bleak and barren of trees, and there were many difficult, steep, and stony areas to traverse in any direction; however, close inspection revealed a certain untamed beauty in the pines, firs, and boulders about. Frigid rivers winding through the canyons, usually beginning someplace with a half-frozen waterfall higher up, added to this beauty; the valleys themselves, and the lower plateaus and ledges immediately above them, were thickly dotted with holly, azalea, and other hardier flora to give color to the scene. In the winter, all of this (not just the mountaintops) was blanketed in a gleaming snow and ice; it was a joy each spring, after each long and bitter freeze, to see the heads of small green plants finally emerging through the snow. Until then, one could only try their best to enjoy the irridescent white beauty, provided they were sheltered against it in some way. **** Sitting upon a ledge, bundled thickly in a long hooded coat and plaid scarf, a young mountain hare allowed her paws to dangle over space, staring across the gorge immediately below to the mountains beyond. The haremaiden enjoyed the winter, but at this moment wished fervently that the temperature were but a few increments warmer; then it would be possible to make a picture of the scene she was viewing, without fear of the dyes she used as paints freezing over. The young creature sighed contendedly; sunrise was just beginning to peek between the two furthest peaks from her; the pale violet light sparkled across the ice-encrusted stones and trees, glittering off the millions of tiny prisms called snowflakes which covered the ground beneath. Light, wispy clouds scooted across the sky, their silvery tops and rosy underbellies testifying to the warming golden orb of the sun pursuing them. It was a sight almost too breathtaking to put into words. Lost in longing for a means of recording this moment, the haremaid strove valiantly to absorb every detail of what she was seeing into her mind, to be sketched and painted later. So intent was she, she did not even react when a large, feathery bulk descended upon the ledge beside her with a dull THUMP. A massive, ancient eagle preened his chest feathers pensively, peering out across the same view as his much-smaller companion. He sounded a bit worried. "T'is a gran' day, lass, but not for land-bound beasts. Should ye not be inside?" The haremaid waved an absent-minded paw at him. "Oh, give over, Hook; t'is me! An' ye know perfectly well the cold doesn't fuss me." The elderly eagle was terribly far-sighted; thus, he was forced to squint to bring the creature near him into focus, though her identity was still hidden by the hood of her coat. "Oh, t'is you, Ascotia Bluefleck? Ah thought t'was somebeast else." The hare turned to face him. Two half-annoyed, half-amused pretty brown eyes looked out from a thickly-furred pale grey face, mottled with slate blue and charcoal marks all over like some sort of conglomerate stone. "Who else would it be, outside the Castle at this so-called 'unholy' hour? An' don't call me Ascotia, if ye want to stay seated on this ledge. Mah name's Scotty, and Ah'll thank ye t'remember that!" The eagle stifled a chuckle; he knew the haremaid well, as did most of his species. Inhabitants of Bowlaynee Castle had been allies of the wild mountain hawks and eagles since time immemorial; however, Scotty was a particular friend of the fierce birds, often hiking up into the mountaintops to visit them, and treating them as part of her family. She knew many of the leaders of the hunters on a first-name basis, something not even every hawk, falcon, or eagle could brag about. In fact, this particular eagle was none other than Prince Hooktalon MacSavage, younger brother to the High Ruler of all the Eagles. Hook, as he was known to his friends, scratched one of his lethal namesakes in the snow, drawing a squiggled pattern. "Aye, lass, Ah should know that. Mah old eyes t'weren't workin' this morning. What are ye doin', anyhow?" By now, the sun had risen fully, banishing the pinkish hues for the full-on white brightness of a snowy, clear morning. With a sigh, Scotty rose from where she had been seated, dusting snow from her skirts and bobtail. "Until ye came along and ruined it, Ah was attemptin' t'plan out a new painting t'work on. Ah'd best start walking back, if Ah'm going to be there by breakfast. Would ye like t'come with me, Hook?" The eagle shook his head firmly. "Nay, lass, be off with ye. Food's scarce enough round here in winter; Ah would'n' dream o' takin' mah fill from smaller beasts' storerooms. A pleasant day t'ye!" He made an ungainly hop off of the ledge into space, spreading his wings and soaring off on the wind. The haremaid waved until he was out of sight, then began plowing her way back through the deep drifts to the Castle she called home. **** Far below, in the temperate, fruitful base of the deep valley, a broad river flowed along between frosty banks. Most of the snow had melted in the lower altitudes; however, it was still bitterly cold, as the shivering, naked branches of the deciduous trees showed. It was usually noisy in the Gorge; howling winds blowing above, birdsong and river chatter below. However, on this particular morning, an unusual silence had fallen; the river was coated with a thin film of ice, the winds were not as hard as usual, and, for some strange reason, the songbirds did not feel disposed to sing. Small families and loners who lived in caves and huts in the area would later say it was as if nature knew something momentous was about to occur; that the everyday struggle for survival in the Northlands was about to be disrupted by death, adventure, and intrigue! Chapter 1 To the west, many leagues from the Highlands and anything remotely resembling them, an angry sea beat a hissing rhythm upon many offshore rocks and reefs. The sky, a solid mass of stormy grey, seemed to add to the foreboding atmosphere. Chunks of dangerous ice floated about, like bits of glinting steel upon the restless waters; more ice formed on any rocks which poked above the surface here and there, as well as on the riggings and sails of any ship foolish to travel the area. It was definitely not a day to be remembered, or enjoyed; just another cold and uncomfortable passage of time on the forbidding, frozen waters of the North. Winter was always a very bad season for sailing, especially in Northern Seas. It was a common and harmless enough complaint for seabeasts to make note of this; in fact, to not do so, especially on a day like today, would cause most creatures to scratch their heads at the phenomenon. And yet, unaccountably, a certain careless searat who had just remarked upon the uncomfortable conditions now sat in fear of his life, confined to the bilges of a ship to await the inevitable sentence which would be visited on him by his fierce and unforgiving captain. **** In the two oardecks which belonged to the huge ship Night Heron, several rows of sweating, groaning captives were chained to the benches to be used as oarslaves. However, the breeze and sea were such that the ship had no need of oars to propel it at the moment; thankful of the much-needed respite, many the pitiful creatures ate the meagre meals tossed to them and settled down for a short nap, or fell into hushed conversation with their near neigbors. Far in the back, a pair of emaciated otters whispered to one another over a shared pot of slops. "Pore ol' Norvig." Said the elder of the two. "Wonder what they'll do to him?" His companion, who was less compassionate, snorted. "Pore Norvig? Huh, pore us y'mean, slavin' away down here. Why worry about scum like 'im? T'was his own fault he shot off his mouth." The old one turned to the younger with a patient, if reproving, glance. "Norvig may've been a searat an' a slaver like the rest of 'em, but at least e' weren't as abusive as some. I've been an oarslave longer than you have, an' I've seen slave drivers come an' go. Norvig was a good sort as they go. True, 'e yelled at us, an' cut our rations, but 'e spared the lash unless some otherbeast told 'im t'use it. D'ye ever remember bein' beaten by 'im on 'is own volition, just 'cause you annoyed 'im or weren't workin' hard enough t'suit 'im? I've seen many slavers do that, but 'e never did." The younger otter realised the justice of this remark. "You're right, old 'un. An' now I come t'think of it, if'n 'e goes, who's gonna take 'is place?" The old one sighed. "I dread t'think. Let's jus' hope it ain't somebeast meaner, for all our sakes, 'specially hers." As he said this, he looked with intense pity at a miserable bundle of golden fur, huddled in terror between the back two rows of oars. The strange, fox-like creature was not a rower, but had been, up to this point, the personal slave of the imprisoned searat Norvig. The pretty animal's fur was light gold, fading to grizzled black on the spine and neck; it was so tall and slender it appeared to be all limbs, ears, and dark frightened eyes. It was clothed in sacks tied with cord, with a thick metal collar about its neck fastened to a leading chain, which was pounded into the wall of the ship; there it lay, in a fog of horror, wondering what next would become of it now that its master was gone. The unidentifiable creature was barely of adolescent age; she was one of six who had been captured long ago as cubs by the corsairs of the ''Night Heron. They were strangely beautiful for fox-like beasts; so much so, in fact, that the captain of the ship had ordered them to not be placed with the oarslaves to be worked to death like the rest. Instead, the captain took the best-looking of the six as a personal slave, giving the other five to the five highest-ranking officers of the ship. The strange creatures had originally spoken no recognizeable language - thus, they had been taught basic words and phrases by their captors. They served their masters attentively, obediently, and without complaint; not because they wanted to, but because they had to. If they accidentally messed up an order, or so much as looked as if they might disobey (none of them had as yet actually done so), they were harshly verbally abused, and sometimes beaten, or imprisoned for several days with little food. The constant mental strain on top of these other issues made the creatures' lots actually worse than those of the oarslaves in the long run. The younger otter, too, felt sorry for the pitiful creature near him; fishing a large lump of half-cooked potato from the depths of his bad meal, he stretched as far as the chains would allow him, trying to reach the wretched beast. "Here, liddle 'un; have sum grub." The beast regarded the proffered morsel with deep suspicion; however, either the frank, friendly face of her fellow captive or the fact she had not eaten in two days must have convinced her all was well, for a few seconds later, she tentatively scooted over on all fours and grabbed the potato, cramming it into her mouth. The young otter put a comforting paw on her shoulder; she stiffened in fear, making as if to flee. The old otter reached gently stroked her head. "Easy, easy, don't be scared. We won't hurt ye, matey." "M-made tee?" The shaky voice was barely audible as the creature enunciated the unfamiliar word. "Matey, ye know. We're yore friends, yore mateys." The creature obviously did not understand; both otters realized with a pang that she had no idea what a friend was. The old otter felt himself choked with emotion; the younger still pursued attempts at making her understand he meant no harm. "What's yore name, what do they call ye?" "Name Spot. Spot my name." The creature was clearly on more familiar ground; she seemed relieved. "My name's Yanoso, can ye say that? Yanoso." "Yahn...yen...y....?" "Yaaah-no-so." "Yaaaaaahsonososo...." The drawn out, stumbling attempt at the confusing name made both otters smile. The elder halted her on the fifth "so". "My name's easier; Tanees. Can ye say that, matey?Tan-ees." "Dinneez?" "Aye, close enough." The old one stroked her frightened face again, not bothering to correct her. "Relax, Spot. We ain't angry with ye for not gettin' it right." Spot tensed again, then allowed herself to relax; evidently, her companions' manner was beginning to make her understand their meaning. She seemed to like her ear being stroked the best; Tanees made a note of it and acted accordingly. "See, no hurting. Just being nice, friends, mateys...." "Hey, you! Paws off the Gold 'Un!" The harsh shout rang through the decks; Spot gave a little scream and curled up in a ball again. The two otters looked up to see a big, muscular stoat bearing down on them, a long whippy cane in his right paw. He lashed out with it, striking Tanees and Yanoso again and again as he drove his point home. "The Gold 'Uns are 'er ladyship's special creatures; scum like yew lot ain't fit t'touch 'em! Next wun who so much as looks at 'em wrong gets set free t'go from this ship, wid a big stone tied about 'is neck!" He halted to address the company at large. "Do I make meself clear?" The wretched oarslaves all nodded, chorusing their hateful "Yessirs". The big stoat gestured about with his cane. "Until 'er ladyship decides wot t'do wid Norvig, I'm in charge here. An' if'n she does wot we all think she'll do, I'm yew lot's new boss permanant-like. An' I ain't as soft as Norvig was. So from now on, when yew lot 'ear the name of Blunge th' stoat, yew be prepared t'obey or die instant-like. Do I make meself clear?" Again, the chorus of miserable "Yessirs" rang out. Blunge seemed satisfied; he stowed his cane in his belt. "Now up on your paws, all of ye. That means yew too, Gold 'Un!" Spot had long since come to realize that Gold 'Un was the collective term used by the corsairs to refer to her species; she leapt to her paws, trembling. Blunge circled her. "Ain't never had me own Gold 'Un before. Yer bit thin for me likin', but seein' as I'm stuck with ye until Norvig comes back - if'n 'e ever does - ye'll have t'do." With savage force, he yanked her chain free, giving her a smack on the spine which made her screech in pain. "Cummon an' get this lot sum water. Now!" The stoat chuckled sadistically to himself as a terrified Spot scurried off, before following her at a more liesurely pace, still holding the end of her long chain. Rubbing the welts on his neck, Tanees turned to Yanoso. "I guess t'was too much t'hope we'd keep a fairly nice driver fer long. Now d'ye miss Norvig, young 'un ?" Yanoso, however, was trembling with rage, and not from the beating he had just recieved. "That poor thing's younger'n me, an' she's got th' eyes of an ancient beast in pain. How can they treat 'em like that, they're little more than babes!" Hearing the drums from the second oar deck signalling it was time to start rowing again, Tanees gripped his oar, signalling that his younger companion do the same. "Who knows why, matey. T'is allus been the way o' vermin; especially them wot serve t'Warlady!" The last word he whispered hoarsely; even then, any oarslave within hearing range gasped and fell silent. For a slave to mention the name of the captain of the ship was sure death; to even refer to her by title had about it an element of danger. For, as everybeast onboard the Night Heron knew, there was no creature living as sadistic, as harsh, as imperious and mighty as Lunarah Dawnrider, Warlady of the High Seas! Chapter 2 The sunrise was having a bit of competition, this first morning of the frigid Northern Spring; several small and silvery cloud banks periodically rolled in over it, realeasing thick but gentle flurries of snow upon the rocky terrain below. The haremaid Ascotia Bluefleck (better known to her friends and relations as Scotty), ploughing her way steadily through the winding mountain paths to her home, was undeterred by this fact; still being young, she immensly enjoyed snowfalls, provided they did not reach blizzard proportions. However, the height of the sun, on the few occasions it was visible, did give her cause for alarm. It was still very early in the morning; however, there was a long way to go from the scenic overlook she recently abandoned to the comforting walls of Bowlaynee Castle, and she had not yet eaten that morning. Putting on any kind of speed was awkward, and almost impossible, in the deep drifts and slippery paths; as she toiled onward, the haremaid became increasingly aware of the fact that she might miss breakfast, or arrive just as it was being cleared away. The loss of food did not bother her unduly, as it might most hares; however, the fact that she would come in for a severe scolding from several older beasts (most of whom regarded mealtimes as serious rituals) caused her to wince. This was not the first time something like this had occured; in fact, her much-argued-for and hard-won priveleges of being allowed outside the castle alone might be revoked, if she turned up late again. A slight shadow floating by above her head caused the haremaid to chuckle; Hook was at it again. Scotty had been right in comparing the old Eagle-Prince to a mother hen; though he was pretending to be nonchalantly flying along and enjoying a fine morning, it was obvious the fussy bird would not rest easy until the youngbeast below him was safely within the walls of the castle, and out of harm's way. Being a resourceful beast, the haremaid decided to use the situation to her advantage. "Ah see ye up there, Hook!" She shouted at the dark speck above her. "Cummon down, lad, yer no' foolin' anybeast!" The eagle did not understand all her words at that distance, but rightly assumed she was addressing him. He dove downwards to the ground, spreading his wings and coming to a fluttering, abrupt halt which nearly knocked his friend over. He made a show of preening his feathers indifferently. "Just seen' ye home, lass; t'is not a fit mornin' for landcrawlers t'be travelin'." Scotty shrugged. "Well, seein' as ye feel helpful this mornin', perhaps ye'd be kind enough t'give mah pore young paws a lift?" The behemoth of an eagle was old and scatterbrained enough to have not thought of this obvious solution before; he clapped a wing to his brow. "Ah should've done that in the first place, miss. Climb aboard, an' hang on tight, noo!" Smiling, the young haremaid leapt onto Hook's massive back, and took a tight grip on the scarf he always wore. The eagle took off, soaring into the grey and white speckled sky; however, he flew much lower and much slower than was his wont, for fear any of his normal acrobatics might dislodge his passenger. **** Owing to the fact that flying in a straight line was a much faster mode of travel than walking winding paths, the two travelers spotted their destination within a manner of minutes. Bowlaynee Castle was comparitively small for a fortress. It was an unusual structure, resembling a village more than it did a palace. Perched against a sheer cliff wall, overlooking the deepest and largest gorge in the Highlands, the castle was a safe haven for many northern goodbeasts and their families; its postition and defenses made it practically immune from any sort of suprise attack. The main building itself was technically the back wall of the structure; a somewhat dull rectangular block, much longer than it was wide, and only two stories high. The building rose above the black cliff face as if it were part of it, with not even a hairs-breadth of ground between the back wall and the edge of the gorge. Two tall, square towers rose high from the left and right sides of the building; the rest of the building had a long balcony above and a columned porch below, running the length of it; many archways and doors opened onto the porches, leading to rooms and corridors within. From the watchtowers at the ends of the palace, two thick stone walls projected straight outwards for some distance, encompassing a veritable maze of stone and wooden outbuildings of varying sizes. These walls were topped with gleaming spikes of glass and crystal; sharp, deadly, and impossible to climb over unnoticed. A third wall connected these two; this one had a battlemented top, with a broad walkway for sentries and a tall metal portcullis blocking an open arch in the base. A third tower arose from the dead center of this wall; the workings to raise the portcullis were inside it, as were the gatekeeper's quarters. Atop this tower, in an open-walled, thatch-roofed structure, hung the pride and joy of Bowlaynee Castle, and all who dwelt within. It was called the Eye of the Bruinne; a beautiful, silver-plated gong, chased with golden carvings in a language long forgotten and studded around the rim with small rubies, one particularly large one adorning the center. The gong, which was as tall as a full-grown hare and half again as wide, had been forged by some skilled craftsbeast in ancient times; it had been given as a gift to the first Laird of the Castle by that same beast, in gratitude for that long-ago monarch's saving his life. The Eye of the Bruinne was used as most fortresses would use a notification bell; however, to be allowed to ring it was an honor that was only conferred on a small army skilled and rigerously trained beasts, as the ancient treasure was always treated as carefully as possible for fear of damaging it. These beasts took turn at the post, alternating each week or so. **** This particular morning's Keeper of the Eye spotted the black splot in the sky some distance off; he stiffened, instinctively gripping the basket hilt of the claymore he wore at his side. Divlee Bluefleck (Royal Advisor to the Laird, Chief Warrior and Official Mistrel of Bowlaynee) was a fine, impressive specimen of an adult mountain hare. Still in his prime and remarkably handsome, wearing over his dignified black garb a tartan cloak and kilt, he stood atop the battlement tower, alert and ready for any trouble that might be approaching. Seeing him tense, the other sentries on the battlements below also looked skyward, grasping their weapons. As the Northlands were inhabited by many vermin gangs and flocks of carrion birds, having sentries on duty was always imperative at Bowlaynee; there was not an adolescent or adult beast within, of either royalty or common status, that had not served in this capacity at some point. None of them took the job lightly; many past skirmishes and wars had taught them harsh lessons on the subject. Watching the black splot growing, and becoming less of a splot and more of a definite shape as it neared, Divlee relaxed with a chuckle. His eldest daughter was at it again; this was not the first time she had taken a ride home on the back of a friendly bird of prey. True, it was not exactly a dignified procedure for the heir of the Royal Advisor; however, Scotty's exalted family status had never seemed to affect her actions unduly. Still smiling, Divlee released his hold on his swordhilt and reached for the gongstick; it was time to sound the breakfast bell. He gave the Eye a series of resounding blows. Clang! Clash! Clang! Clash! "No danger, m'lads! All beasts to th' tables an' serve y'selves, t'is eatin' time!" From the many outbuildings and huts in the grounds, several creatures emerged. The vast majority of the residents were hares; however, there was also fair-sized contingent of rabbits, as well as a few families of otters and one very small family of badgers. One and all, they made their way to the main building's feasting hall, where a spread of varied nutbreads, oatmeals, and mulled ciders had been laid out for them. Some planned to stay and eat at the tables there; others brought small carts or baskets with them, planning to take food back to young, ill, or elderly family members who could not make the trek in the snow. Turning back from watching his fellow residents to face the outside lands, Divlee had his ears blown back flat as Hooktalon soared low overhead, missing him by a fraction. The huge eagle wheeled about and came in for a somewhat awkward landing on the tower's stone railing, allowing his passenger to disembark. Divlee bowed to him. "Mah thanks t'ye, sir, for bringin' home mah daughter." The eagle shrugged, nearly losing his balance from his precarious perch. "No trouble at all; t'lass would've missed her meal, an' we couldn't have that, could we? G'day t'ye!" He took off again, scattering snow from the roof as he flapped ponderously homeward. Scotty dusted some stray flakes from her cloak; giving her father a mischevious wink. "Seems t'me brekkist is a wee bit late this mornin', dad. Any particular reason for the delay? Y'weren't waitin' for me, Ah hope!" Divlee had, in fact, been doing just that; however, he would never have admitted it. He gave his daughter a playful shove. "Away wi' ye, lass, don' set y'self up as bein' all that special. Doon t'brekkist wi' ye!" Still smiling, Scotty made her way down the ladder to the grounds below. She was halfway across the courtyard when a snowball struck her square on the tailbob; she whirled around, just in time to catch another missile square in the mouth. She spat it out, paws akimbo. "All right, what bold beastie threw that?" Three babes - a bunny, an otterkit, and a leveret, respectively - showed themselves from behind a bush, pelting their victim with more of the white stuff. Scotty recognized the leveret as her younger sister Gabriana; however, the male bunny was obviously the ringleader of the trio, yelling encouragement to his two companions. "Cummon, keep it up! We'll get 'er yet! Fire!" Scotty dodged a missile that would have gone down her ear otherwise; she spread her paws comically, appealing to the young rabbit. "Haud hard there, Willdun, what have I done t'deserve this?" The otterbabe, whose name was Jakub, giggled gleefully as he answered. "Yore t'Bruinne, we gonna slayed ya widda snow!" Scotty knew the game; the Bruinne was a legendary monster of Higlands folklore, and youngbeasts would often designate the target of playful attacks as such. Accordingly, she played along, as was expected of her. "Well, if Ah'm a Bruinne, Ah'm cummin' t'eat ye up, me bonny lads an' lasses! There's no escapin' me! Hahaharrrr!" With a maniacal laugh, she came after them, paws above her head like outstretched claws, buck teeth bared like fangs. Laughing and squealing, the trio fled, stopping only to lob snowballs backwards at their "foe". Scotty caught up to her sister first; she picked the giggling leveret up and held her over her head. "Haharr, t'mighty Bruinne has taken a prisoner, an' Ah'm takin' her back t'mah cave t'eat her forthwith. Catch me if ye can!" This time, pursuer became pursued as the haremaid pounded her way to the feasting hall, snowballs pelting the back of her coat. Creatures shook their heads and chuckled as the gleeful band charged loudly though the door and into the palace. One and all, they were fondly thinking the same thing; "That Scotty, she never will grow up!" **** Far to the west, onboard the nightmarish ship Night Heron, the bound and chained searat Norvig sat in wretched, sleepless horror in the bilges, awaiting his fate. All the previous night and most of the next morning he had lain there, cut off from all outside contact; it was a tactic the sadistic Warlady used to instill terror into beasts awaiting her pleasure. "What'd I even do?" the rat wondered aloud, his voice echoing into the gloom. "All I said wuz what ev'rybeast wuz thinkin'! Is that so wrong?" His attempts at rationalizing were interrupted by a bright flash of light as the trapdoor to the bilges was flung open. Blunge and another big stoat named Greeby stomped into the cabin, grabbing the prisoner and hauling him up the stairs. "Cummon, loudmouth, t'Warlady's ready t'see yew!" Norvig groaned miserably; he had been hoping, against hope, that his captain would have forgotten him, or forgiven him and ordered his release. There was no escape now; he would have to face her wrath, and he knew all-too-clearly what would probably happen then. He fought his captors, struggling the whole length of the oardecks and staircases as they escorted him roughly to the bridge. **** The whole of the vermin crew had been ordered to assemble on the Night Heron's massive upper deck; nearly tenscore assorted stoats, weasels, ferrets, and searats were gathered there, waiting expectantly in bloodthirsty glee for what would happen next. Struck over the head to stop his struggles, a stunned and groggy Norvig was pushed through the crowd to land facedown in a jumbled heap on the boards in front of them, where he lay, moaning piteously. Blunge cut the searat's bonds and stepped back; he and Greeby began leading the rest of the crew in a traditional chant. "Hail Lunarah Dawnrider! Warlady of the High Seas! Ruler of the Night Heron! She of surpassing Beauty and Might!" From behind the mainmast, Lunarah Dawnrider emerged. The Warlady was neither stoat, rat, weasel or ferret; she was, in fact, a Fisher - that big and stocky cousin of the Pine Marten which inhabits the Lands of Ice and Snow far across the seas. She was strikingly beautiful, tall and graceful for one of her species; however, there was not a soft spot or spare ounce of flesh on her body. She seemed to be made of solid, well-toned muscle and sinew, all coated in the characteristic dark pelt with warm brown highlights which is the hallmark of a fisher. Her eyes were shining pools of jet black, reflecting any light like stars; their shape and expression, combined with her short muzzle, round ears, and the other features of her dark face, had about them a suggestion of refined cruelty. She wore a long, sleeveless, hooded tunic of chain mail, surmounted by a broad black belt and a shining gilded breastplate, both of which bore the sign of a blood-red sun rising above two jagged silver peaks. She also wore gilded gauntlets, a flowing cloak of carmine, and a rounded helmet surmounted by a red cloth turban and a tall, silver spike. To look at her would take anybeasts breath away; never before had there been a creature who emanated such a tangible air of stunning beauty and danger all at the same time. The Warlady's eyes pointedly ingnored the captive groveling at her footpaws; she addressed the crew at large, her resounding voice much deeper than was a female's wont. "Methinks I am a fair and just captain. I provide thee with plunder, food, shelter, slaves to do thy bidding, a ship to sail on. All I ask is obedience from thee in return. Is this not a reasonable request, my brethren?" Dutifully, the crew kept silent, knowing that she did not actually wish an answer; the fisher addressed her prisoner, almost soothingly. "Aye, it is as I say; a reasonable request indeed. So tell me, wretched creature whose name means naught to me..." here she whipped out a long stiletto from a belt sheath, slamming it against Norvig's neck and pinning him to the deck. "Why do ye complain and say otherwise?" Barely able to breathe, the searat squeaked, "All I said, majesty, was it's cold! I swear that's all I said!" The fisher shook her head as if in pity. "No, t'was not all thee said. As I recall, thy exact words were ' To sail this territ'ry inna winter's the act of fools an' idiots.' Were they not? Do not bother to lie!" Norvig trembled and sobbed, unable to nod; she had quoted him word-perfect. Nobeast ever questioned Lunarah's memory; she never forgot a thing, especially not an insult. All he could do now was plead. "Milady, fergive me, I didn't mean yew were a...aaagggkhh!" Lunarah pressed harder, drawing blood; she hissed at him through clenched teeth. "Ye should have learned before now to tame thy tounge, rodent! Now thee will serve as an example for all who think they can speak lightly of their Captain, or question her decisions!" Tossing aside her dagger, she lifted the much smaller rat bodily and flung him high into the air; before he had begun to descend, she had drawn a massive two-handed sword from where it hung concealed by her cloak, whipping the huge weapon about with blinding speed. Norvig hit the deck minus two of his paws and his head; even the brutal vermin crew stepped back in horror at the sight. Lunarah waved her broadsword at them. "Look well, knaves; look well, and heed this warning! Cloud, attend me!" Imperiously, she strode away to her cabin; behind her, the eldest of the six Gold Ones followed meekly, trembling slightly with the terror of what she had just witnessed. A second fisher, a burly young male, was already inside the cabin, awaiting Lunarah's return. Tossing from paw to paw her stiletto, which he had retreived from the deck, the beast smiled at her mockingly. "Practicing our swordskill, were we? Dear me, but babes were ever fond of their fun." The broadsword's blade zipped out, the tip nearly missing his eyeball. "Shut thy mouth, Grumbu; I am thy elder by seven seasons, and if our mother had not made me swear to take care of thee on her deathbed, ye would be long dead. Remember that, and curb thy prattle!" Grumbu, younger brother of Lunarah, was an impudent beast by nature; however, he knew better than to push his luck too far when she was in a dangerous mood. He tossed her stiletto over to her, shrugging nonchalantly. "As thou pleasest. So, are ye still planning to carry out thy grand and foolish sceme, sister of mine?" Lunarah gave him a cold stare; realizing that he had said the wrong thing, Grumbu retreated, shaking a claw at her. "Temper, temper; remember, thou hast promised to not slay me!" He shut the door quickly, listening to the thud as the stiletto struck the timbers. Lunarah screeched at him. "Get out, out, you clod, before ye lose thy head!" Laughing to himself, Grumbu withdrew. Lunarah raised her paw as if to strike her Gold One. "You! Get me my map, or t'will go badly with thee!" Cloud scuttled over to an ornate chest and pulled out a parchment; Lunarah snatched it moodily from her, poring over it. The map outlined a deep river route running from the sea to the center of the Northern Highlands; where she had gotten it, nobeast knew. It was a very crude map, with directions written in badly spelt, scrawling handwriting; however, what interested the ruthless and greedy fisher was the structure marked in the far corner. A small castle, which housed the greatest, prettiest, and most valuable treasure the covetous Warlady had ever heard of; one that she had set her heart upon plundering, and would go to the very Cracks of Doom to acquire. The Eye of the Bruinne! Chapter 3 Grumbu meandered aimlessly across the top deck of the '' Night Heron'', condescendingly smiling at the occasional dutiful salute given him by his sister's crewbeasts. Though cruel-hearted like the rest, Grumbu was rather passive for a vermin, given more to witty comebacks rather than enraged outbursts when something displeased him. His main weapon was his tongue; when he felt so inclined, he could make just about anybeast on the crew look like a total idiot only a few sentences into an argument, and cow the biggest blusterers with the most scathing insults in mere seconds. He had occasional "moods", where he would become sulky and quiet, and also very dangerous if disturbed; however, for the most part, he was a dashing, sadistic scoundrel, always ready to take down anybeast to the lowest peg possible. An ugly searat named Kiedl, who was one of the assistant slavedrivers, reluctantly approached Grumbu. He gave a little, embarrassed cough. "Beggin' yer pardin, m'lud, but we've a bit of a....er, a problem b'low decks." Grumbu's eyes flashed disdain, but his mouth still continued to smile. "A 'bit' of a problem, ye say. And what pray, is a 'bit' of a problem to such louts as thee and thy compatriots? Have ye forgotten how to breathe?" Kiedl flushed as some of the crew within earshot sniggered at the jibe. He was about to continue when Grumbu made a second observation. "I say, thine eye is swollen like a plum. Didst thou fall down the stairs?" This time some of the deck slaves also joined in the sniggering. Kiedl glared at them before continuing. "Well, m'lud, one of the Gold 'Uns went missin'. We found it, but we don't know whatta do wid it; we can't return it." Grumbu's eyebrow raised slightly. "Why not? And how, pray tell, does that account for thine eye?" The now-sweating rat went on to explain, sidestepping the subject of his injury. "T'Gold 'Un is t'wun belongin' t'Isopo. An' she's inna vile temper; if'n we don't do somethin' quick, she might go onna killin' spree agin, summa me mateys think. Nobeast wants t'go near 'er!" "I see." Grumbu was obviously enjoying the mental agony his higly embarrassed victim was in; accordingly, he repeated the question. "And thine eye?" Kiedl gave him a look of desperation. "M'lud, this is somethin' serious; shouldn't we go b'low decks an' do somethin' quick?" Grumbu shook his head. "Not until thou tells me how came thee by that eye!" Having nothing else for it, the humiliated Kiedl lowered his head and mumbled. "Tripped onna Gold 'Un's chain. Hit me 'ead onna door frame." Unacountably, Grumbu suddenly stopped enjoying himself and lost his temper; he berated the rat, spitting out the words like barbed shafts. "T'is always my lot to sort out the problems ye louts cause behind mine sister's back. Driveling idiot! Cannot ye even do such a simple task as finding a wayward weakbeast without falling on thy stupid face, and enraging a madbeast into the bargain! I will not waste my time upon such fools as thee! Taggra, thou knowest how to handle Isopo, do ye not?" Taggra was the cook; the fat searat bowed low, grunting with the effort. "M'lud, I do indeed. No crazy ferret's bested me yet!" Grumbu turned on his heel. "Take her the food she likes and quieten her. See to it her Gold One is returned to her, also. As for thee, Kiedl, I suggest thou find the healing quarters and have thine eye seen to; if ye can find the healing quarters unaided!" This last remark being made, Grumbu made his way to the bowsprit and sat upon it, forepaws about his knees and chin resting on his elbows. Beneath him, the dark sea sped by; he stared at it through dulled eyes, as if he was bored past the point of caring by it all. Nobeast approached him; they all knew that one of his strange "moods" must have come upon him again. Some of the deck slaves cleaning and scrubbing nearby thought they heard a grief-stricken sigh come from his direction; however, they dismissed it as wavesound and carried on, unconcerned with what a mere second in command was thinking. After all, one slaver was much like another to a lowly captive; it was the captain's whims that really mattered in the long run. **** Back at Bowlaynee Castle, Scotty sat on a mat spread on the stone flags of the feasting hall, propped up by several cushions. (Owing to the sparceness of wood in the high altitudes, large items of furniture such as banquet tables and multitudes of chairs were wasteful and impractical, especially when most felled trees served as necessary firewood; thus, meals were taken picnic-style upon the floor, each little group of family and friends having several mats and cusions to themselves. This particular morning, the entire Bluefleck family was present, Divlee having been relieved of duty a short while before. Between bites of nutbread, Scotty leaned over and whispered in her father's ear. "Poor mother. Ah'm thinkin' she's fightin' a losin' battle there." Divlee could not help but agree. Arith Mcwhitten-Harrah Bluefleck, wife of Divlee and mother of his three daughters, was not a native Highlander. She originally hailed from the far southern fortress of Salamandastron; a place that lived and breathed military precision and efficiency. Accordingly, she was a meticulously organized and tidy beast , with a horror of any sort of disruption or mess. In vain, she tried to restore order amongst a band of several babes nearby, who had no such tendencies and were spooning more oatmeal onto their faces than into their mouths in their haste. Her well-bred military tones rang out across the crowded hall. "I say, slow down, you'll jolly well give y'self tummyache that way! Willdun, what have I told ye about throwing....Gabbie! Put that down! My own daughter betrays me, wot! And you, ye little terror, wipe that chin an' swallow! Land sakes! Jakub, don't dunk your nutbread in there, look at the flippin' drippin' mess on the floor!" Sherlyn, the middle Bluefleck daughter, guiltily removed her nutbread from her cider and stuffed it into her mouth. "Hope mother didnae see that; Ah was doin' it, too!" Divlee's wife's eyes met his at that moment; they very clearly spoke one word - "HELP!" He turned to his eldest daughter. "Scotty, you're done eatin'. How about givin' yore mother some assistance, lass?" Finishing the last crumbs of her toast, Scotty set her plate aside and rose. "Won't do much good, but worth a try, Ah s'pose." In the end, an uneasy truce was drawn in the war of messy vs. tidy, and Arith was finally convinced that she could leave well enough alone and finish her own meal. She huffed as she served herself some honeyed oatmeal from the large bowl her husband proffered her. "Little hooligans, the lot of them! We were never this wild, wot! What's this bally generation coming to?" Divlee said nothing, remembering the massive food fights that were a daily exercise when he was a leveret. Wiping spilled oatmeal from her scarf, Scotty began packing up a quantity of uneaten food she had set aside, placing it into a small wicker basket. "Well, if nobeast wants me further, Ah'm goin' round t'see Kerrin an' bring 'im these vittles. Come with me, Sherlyn?" Scotty's sister, who was only one season her junior, had many things in common with her sister; however, enjoying prolonged wanders through the snow was not one of them. "Nay, be off with ye. Ye c'n give 'im my regards, tho'." As Scotty wandered back through the door onto the grounds, Arith turned worriedly to Divlee. "I'm not all to sure about Scotty havin' the freedoms she does, y'know. She was nearly late for breakfast again; the way she behaves, I question her maturity, wot!" Divlee thickly layered a slice of nutbread with damson preserve, shrugging nonchalantly. "Th' lass is well able to take care of herself; dinnae doubt it. She may be a young'un', but mah better judgement tells me there's more to 'er than meets the eye!" However, Arith's attention had been diverted; it was clear the shaky truce was ended. "I say, Gabbie and her two friends are gone, wot; followin' that older daughter of mine out visiting, and still covered in oatmeal and crumbs, no doubt! And look at the mess Yoogum's made; tipped his whole blinkin' bowl over! You rascal, don't play in it, clean it up!...." On waged the war, as the breakfast hour wound its way to a close. **** It didn't take long for Scotty to realize she was being followed; she turned to face her pursuers, paws akimbo in mock indignation. "Well, if it isn't the terrible trio of Bruinne-slayers. And who invited ye to follow mah trail, eh?" Gabriana, who did indeed have a liberal crust of dried oatmeal and crumbs upon her person, answered for her friends. "We come see K'rin widja, cheer 'im up, hear a story!" Scotty threw her paws up as if in resignation. "Well, if ye must, ye must. Come along, ye horrible hunters!" The four made their way to the furthest hut in the outbuildings; a small, ramshackle structure of rock and planks which looked as if it might fall down at any second, sitting squarely in the corner of two of the walls. Shifting the heavy basket to one paw, Scotty pounded upon the door. "T'is me, Scotty Bluefleck; open up, Ah brought vittles!" A weak voice came back. "I left it unlocked. Cummon in!" The haremaid gave the door a push; creaking and protesting, it swung back to reveal a rather dirty interior, overfull of books, scrolls, and very small tables. Several candles burned on the windowsills, cheerily lighting the room, heedless of the fact that it was in such a bad state. In the midst of the disarray, a very thin and wan otter sat upon a sort of cot, bundled in multiple quilts. His eyes lit up as the welcome company entered his dwelling. "Ye didn't mention ye brought friends; how are ye, little ones?" The bunny, leveret, and otterkit had lapsed into shy silence in the presence of the sickbeast. Scotty began unpacking her basket. "Ah brought ye oatmeal an' bread, t'was all we had this mornin'. Oh, an' a beaker o'mother's best mulled cider." The otter's bleary eyes lit up at the sight of the food. "Wish I could eat all that; there's more than enough here for three of my meals. Sit y'selves down, friends." Respectfully, the four visitors obeyed his wishes. Kerrin sighed forlornly as he absently picked crumbs from a slice of bread. "Healer was here earlier; says it's just another bad spell that should pass off once the weather warms up a little. But enough about me. What's been going on at the castle?" Scotty related the incident that morning at breakfast, regarding her mother and the babes; as she talked, she was mentally mulling over the interesting phenomenon that was Kerrin. The otter was an orphan; he had apparently been born sickly, prone to bouts of stomach illness that would leave him incapacitated for days. The worst season for him was winter, when colds and chills would make him even more ill than he already was; during that time, he might go for weeks without stepping a paw outside his hut. Many creatures had offered to take him to their homes, or to the proper infirmary in the Castle; however, he had stoutly refused any such attentions, preferring to spend the lonelier times of his life engaged in study and learning, as well as filling his mind with all the stories he could read from the historical records of the Castle. He was, obviously, a loner; yet he enjoyed company immensely when he had it. He was also the smartest beast living in the castle; yet he would not let on this fact unless you engaged him in conversation on a topic that required such intellect. As the haremaid drew to a close, she noticed that Kerrin was not paying attention to her; he looked distracted and uneasy. She immediately was concerned. "Kerrin, lad, what's the matter? Ah'm not used t'ye bein' this quiet. Normally it's you doin' the storytellin' round here." Willdun spoke up. "We wanna story from YOU now!" Kerrin shook himself. "Huh? Oh, sorry, mate. I just read somethin' the other day that's got me rattled. I'll tell ye later; not in front of the babes. So..." He adjusted his position to face the babes, "What kind of story do you want?" "Tella one about a Bruinne!" Jakub volunteered. Scotty intervened. "Haud hard there, pore Kerrin's told ye ev'ry story about a Bruinne he knows, three or four times over!" The otter smiled. "No, no, I don't mind. Let's see, how does their favorite one go? " While Scotty served up a plate of food, the three young ones gathered at Kerrin's paws, eagerly awaiting the tale they knew so well. "T'was the start of Spring, long seasons ago. A warrior by the name of Jaywil McScutta had just come back to the Highlands after being gone on a long journey. Jaywil was a Royal Advisor, much like Gabriana's father Divlee; it was his job to notice when things needed fixing. And this day he could tell with a glance that something was badly wrong." "The Castle was deserted, the gates were open, and it looked like nobeast was there. Everybeast had run away! Jawil followed their tracks, and found that they were all hiding inside a cave. So he asked what had happened. Then a poor rabbit mother, all teary and shaking, told him, 'Stay away from the castle, we can't go back there again! A horrible creature has slain our Laird and now it's living inside the castle grounds; it ate my pore husband alive! It's got half of us still held captive in the cellars; we were the only ones who escaped!'" "Well, Jaywil wasn't the sort to let a creature do that to kinbeasts of his, and besides, he later found out his wife was bein' held in the castle. So he says to the creatures, 'Hear me now! I'll slay that horrible monster, free the families, and lead you all safely back home again!' And he charged back into the castle, yelling, 'Creature! Come out if ye dare, an' face a son of Roarin' Thunder!'" "And the thing came out! Taller than a tree, a big brown hulk with fur everywhere; you never saw so much fur in your life! And it had so many paws and claws nobeast could count them; and its red eyes were each the size of a full-grown hare! And it said, 'I am the Bruinne! Who dares to challenge me? I'll eat him alive! Who is out there?'" The little ones all shivered in pleasurable fright; Willdun whispered to Scotty, as if she didn't know, "Now we get t'the good part!" Kerrin continued. "Well, old Jaywil knew no one beast could kill something like ''that, not with mere weapons alone! But he wasn't advisor for nothing; he was very smart. So he hid behind a hut, where the creature couldn't see him. 'Nobeast!' Says he." " 'Nobeast, eh?' said the Bruinne. 'Well, if you are nobeast, then who was talking to me just now?' And his big red eyes looked around." "Nobeast was talkin' to ye." "You Lie!" "Then where is the beast who was talkin' to ye, eh? Can ye see him?" "No..." "So, Mr. Bruinne, if ye can't see him, how can he be there?" "I heard him!" "You did not!" "Yes I did, I hear you yet!" "But ye ain't here, are ye? How can ye hear somethin' here if ye ain't actually here?" "Now Mr. Bruinne was very angry. 'I'm here, you dimwit!" "No ye ain't, and I c'n prove it to ye!" "Do it then!' The Bruinne laughed at old Jaywil. 'If ye can prove I'm not here, I'll let all my dinners go home!" "So Jaywil says, ' All right, I will. Let's see....ye ain't at Redwall Abbey, are ye?" "No...." "Ye ain't at Salamandastron, are ye?" "Of course not!" "Ye ain't in the middle of the sea, are ye?" "You idiot! I'm not in the water!" "Well, if ye ain't at Redwall Abbey, ye ain't at Salamandastron, and ye ain't in the middle of the sea, ye must be someplace else." "Right!' The Bruinne was grinning all over his face, thinking he had his unseen foe beaten." "Until Jaywill says, 'If yore somplace else, that means ye ain't here! I win!" Gabbie could contain her excitement no longer. "An' Jaywil won!" Kerrin grinned. "That he did! The pore Bruinne was so confused trying to work it out, his pore liddle brain went up in smoke an 'e dropped stone dead! An' old Jaywill took one of 'is eyes, and hung it up over the gate as a warning to all the other Bruinnes that might try to come in here!" The little ones gave a mighty cheer, as they always did; Jaywil was their favorite legendary hero. Then, brandishing sticks like swords, they ran outside to play their favorite game of chasing a Bruinne, taking turns playing the part of Jaywil. Scotty wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. "Ah declare, that sounds like somethin' mah dad would try, an' have the luck to pull off. That story get's better ev'ry time ye tell it, Kerrin!" Kerrin lay back, a bit worn out from his enthusiastic recital. "Thanks, mate. Give us a swig of cider, would ye?" Scotty obliged, passing him the beaker. "Now, what was botherin' ye, lad? Ye c'n tell me, now th' babbies are gone." Kerrin pulled from under his quilt a book of maps, written by some illterate but well-traveled beasts from seasons gone by. "I was flipping through this book, and discovered there's a map missing; the one that leads from the sea to this castle." The haremaid was confused. "That's not so bad. Maybe it fell out; t'is an ancient book." The otter showed her the page in question. "No, somebeast tore it out. And by the looks of it, not long ago. See this?" He pointed to a rusty stain near the edge. "That's blood. And I'd swear to it there were no bloodstains when I last saw this book some weeks ago. And it was intact then. I don't know why, but I've got a feeling we're in for a lot of trouble over this." Scotty, too, was disturbed; there was no logical reason why somebeast should tear a page from a sickbeast's book, and leave a bloodstain behind while doing it; however, she could think of no sinister reasons either. The whole thing was a puzzle. "D'ye want me t'take this t'mah dad? He might know what t'do." Kerrin nodded. "Aye, ye'd best do that, mate. But don't go tellin' everybeast about this. Don't want a mass panic on our hands, do we?" Scotty nodded. "I won't even tell Sherlyn until mah dad's seen it. It might be nothing; but then....." She left the sentence unfinished, shaking her head perplexedly as she bore the volume back across the grounds to the main castle building. Category:Blog posts Category:Fan Fiction